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Contraptionology!

by Jeffrey C. Wells

www.scrivnarium.net

(with gratitude to the pre-reading powers of Akela Stronghoof and S.R. Foxley)
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appendix b: "The Future"

(The first post-production draft of "Contraptionology!" had an additional epilogue section dealing with Events To Come. The inclusion of the following passage made the epilogue the longest chapter by word count of the entire story, which made me feel as though I was doing something objectively wrong, and pre-reading reaction confirmed my suspicions. I still kind of like the way this sounds, though, so I thought I'd toss it up here as a bonus.)

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Let's look at the future for a second, tie up some of these loose ends. How about it?

First off, I reckon it should go without saying that I canceled my Cloudsdale talk on the projected benefits of using pump stations instead of tornados to lift cloud-making water up to the Weather Factory. I just don't think I could have gotten through a speech urging them pegasi to accept some new technological innovation without starting to giggle maniacally and then going off for a nice long lie-down. So there's that.

We finally rounded up all the surviving contraptions – excepting, of course, Iggy and Robo-Trixie, but specifically including the important bits of Angel's lagomorph colossus and my brother's sonic plowshare. They are now under high-security lockdown in Canterlot, in a vault only Princesses are allowed to access and withdraw items from. Rumor has it that the sonic plow is being studied as a last-ditch city-defense weapon, to be used in tandem with the already-overpowering Royal Canterlot Voice, but I have my doubts that that research is gonna come to anything good. Them royal scientists'll quickly realize that to tinker with contraptionology is to go places no sane ponies are meant to go, and they'll lock them infernal machines up for good. At least, that's what I hope's gonna happen.

The butter-bee-bats were also rounded up – by yours truly, I might add – and cast into the depths of the Everfree Forest, our standard humane dumping-ground for all problems both living and strange, where (for all I know) they still exist today. I figure some day we're gonna pay the price for all this casual biological disposal, but today is not that day. Tomorrow's looking pretty good too.

Twilight and Pinkie finally did take that road trip to Maresachusetts. Accompanying them on their journey was Twi's faithful assistant (not minion) Spike, Iggy the Salamander, Professor von Danger (plus his new little lightning-friend Ditzy Doo), and, interestingly enough, the Great and Powerful Rrrobo-Trixie. The Professor and the Mayor had a lovely little parting scene, where they smooched like yearlings and promised to write and see each other soon. You might be interested to see it, but unfortunately, that scene – like all the subsequent scenes from what I understand turned out to be a real humdinger of a trip – is not part of this here tale. To use a well-worn phrase, that is a story for another day.

We eventually rebuilt all the buildings in town, right back the way they used to be. Almost. Twilight up and decided that she actually kind of liked the "big open space" effect of her contraptionological laboratory, so when she magically encouraged her home tree to grow its innards back, she left a part open in the middle as a nice little atrium, reaching from the ground floor all the way up to the sky. Then, ever-cheery and practical, she turned a big tear in the walls into something called a "book drop", which I guess would allow ponies to return books they checked out even if it was really really late and Twilight was asleep. It ain't much use, since nopony actually checks books out of that library, but everypony nevertheless agreed that the changes to the newly-restored Library were good ones.

The structures of Ponyville, as rebuilt in the wake of the Contraption War, lasted for a full twenty-four months before they were laid to waste by the next big disaster to come down the pipe. It was a new record. We were positively ecstatic. Ponyville itself was quite plainly alive and well.

Them Constancy-trees I conjured up back when I was Nightmare Delicious? Still there. Guess I wasn't kidding about the Constancy part. They could not be cut, or pulled, or even moved (much), so we sort of improvised and built around them. The big one, the one that had caught the wreckage of the old Town Hall, is now smack in the middle of the central court of our New New New Town Hall, and I don't mind telling you, it is very pretty. Come Hearth's Warming, we string it all up with little white fairy-lights, and it looks like a piece of heaven. But on Nightmare Night, boy howdy, it's another story. Every October, that big ol' tree produces a single bumper crop of bright, beautiful, golden apples, shiny and gleaming on the outside but dull and sweet and black as fine chocolate inside. Nopony sees them grow; they're just there. And there ain't no seeds in them apples, neither. No new trees will ever come from them. But they're otherwise fine to eat – least that's what about a hundred Canterlot wizards said, when we spent a couple months making absolutely gol-darn sure we weren't spreading some kind of evil demon-plague around town feeding them to the kids. The kids, a'course, love 'em to death. What can I say? They look real appealingly sinister, kind of a dark mirror of our other supernatural apple crop, the Zaps. They're the biggest hit on Nightmare Night itself, of course. Much to my dismay, the new variety of apples has been named "Nightmare Delicious", and, just like the trees themselves, that name ain't budging. Sinister, silly name; perfectly safe apple.

Except...

Except one time, some enterprising souls bought some of them Nightmare apples from us, having got it in their heads to press some cider out of 'em. The drink that came of it, when properly fermented and all, was smooth and seductive and tasty, but them distillers reported that tipping back too much of the stuff could lead a pony to inescapable fits of melancholy and nostalgia, causing her to obsess over the past and about times long gone, to fixate on the idea that nothing's as good now as it used to be; and that maybe if things would stop changing for a spell, we'd all be better off. I can't help but think that the Nightmare would enjoy, in its own sad way, that sort of legacy.

I don't need any of that abstract symbological nonsense, myself. I got me my own legacy of darkness, and it takes the form of my two sharpened wolf-teeth, which I never did get pulled again. Any time I start getting moody, or jealous, or upset, I run my tongue over those teeth, and remind myself of how close the Wolf is, living as he does inside my own skin. It tends to set me straight.

Anyhow. The little bunker of Constancy-trees where I had momentarily imprisoned Robo-Trixie on that fateful night was a bit harder to build around, so we just sort of left it there. I tell you what, having an indestructible, immobile little "room" in the middle of town sure came in handy the day my little sis and her friends decided to try and earn their Cutie Marks in explosive ordnance disposal. That, too, is a story for another day, and by this I mean "the less said of it, the better".

And about Sweet Apple Acres? The grim predictions of the Nightmare? The city of Canterlot overwhelming us, swallowing us whole? Well, them predictions haven't come true yet, and I don't expect they will for a good long time. Because I love my home. I love this land. I love my happy little apple-farm. And if something threatens what I love, I ain't gonna go crazy, ain't gonna hurt other ponies to try and enforce my will on the world. That way lies the Nightmare. But what I am going to do is hold on tight to what I love, so I can see if I can make it last forever.

Nothing does, of course. But I'm gonna have a go of it. Because, as I have said, I am a right stubborn one. Universe tells me change is inevitable, well, I'm gonna challenge it to a game of chicken.

We'll see who flinches first.